


The Dawning of the World

by somelovelylove



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: (but not a lot), Charlie is kind of awkward but mostly just sad and bisexual, Domestic Violence, M/M, Meyer's always right, Underage Kissing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-01 05:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13288209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somelovelylove/pseuds/somelovelylove
Summary: Glimpses through time of two tired Lower East Side boys.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will try to update this frequently but I'm a student (booo) so we'll see how it goes. Anyway, excited to finally add some content for these unappreciated gay gangster husbands.

**Lower East Side, 1914**

The narrow street looked like a sewer and smelled like the plague. Salvatore Lucania breathed in deep, letting the impurities fill his lungs with an unsettling satisfaction. A cart rolled past the crowd and splashed in what one might hope was mud. He moved along the edges, the other boys following behind close until they reached their usual spot by the alley and before the schoolyard. It was still crowded, but nobody gave two shits about some hooligans roughing up kids for money. It was early, a little too early for school, but Sal had figured anytime he wasn’t at home was time well spent. He had a shift at Goodman’s in a couple hours, but it would be after the morning school rush at least. 

A kid came around the corner of the loan building. He was a little thing, barely up to Sal’s post-growth-spurt stomach and was carrying a box that clanked as he walked. The box itself was bigger than the kid’s head, and Sal was already grinning. Given the time and the cargo, he assumed the little guy was not going to school, which meant, no matter how small, he was old enough to be smacked around without Sal feeling too bad. Then, with a jerk of his head, the boys crossed the street as cats. Sal reached him first, and with barely a push the kid fell on his elbows to the ground. His box fell too, and Sal kicked it away before he could reach a helping tool. He regarded the kid’s features. 

“Look, we don’t do this so much for little Jews but,” he shrugged, gesturing to the other boys. “How’s about you pay us and we make sure a small thing like you stays safe in these dangerous streets.”

“You do this to every Jew—every Italian, every Mick who comes through here.” The kid replied with a strength and steadiness that wiped the grin off Sal’s face. 

“Sure,” he said. “Don’t matter. How much you got in your pants, little man?”

“Probably a bank’s worth the fucking Hebe.” Another boy said, stepping forward. Sal shoved him back.

“Shut up.” He turned back to the kid. “Last chance before you really mess yourself up. Cough it up.”

The smaller boy’s eyes narrowed and he sat up tall. With crystal enunciation he spoke, “Go fuck yourself.” 

“The _fuck_ you just say, you kike piece of shit!?” One boy shouted. Another stepped forward.

“We’ll wreck him, Sal. Little fuckin’ asshole—“

Sal put his arm up, eyebrows raised. “No.”

“What?”

He was staring down at the kid with something in his eyes, something not quite showing on his face. 

“What’s your name, Jew-boy?”

The kid swallowed. “Lansky. Meyer Lansky.”

“Well, little man, guess it’s your lucky day.” He said. “Get outta here.”

Meyer hesitated, eyeing the other boys. But this kid, this overgrown Italian asshole, seemed to definitely be the one in charge. He stood, grabbed his tool box, and walked away at a calm and steady pace. He could feel the taller one’s eyes on him, but he wasn’t chancing a look back. Either he was one truly blessed son of a bitch or he was going to die later that day. A nervous giggle threatened to tear out of him, but he swallowed it and coughed instead. He still had a day of work, after all.

“Sal, what the fuck was that?”

“School’s opening in five minutes, we got plenty of chances.” He replied.

“What does—“

Sal turned sharply. “You got a problem?”

The boy faltered. “Uh… no. Sorry, I just—“

“Forget it, come on.”

\---

The summer was hot and thick and pressed down on the city like a noose on a dead man.

Sal loved it.

The breeze that came in off the river made the sun bearable, but honestly the pits of hell would’ve been fine for him, anything other than _cold_. It wasn’t something he was proud of. No bone in his body longed for Sicily, but he couldn’t help whatever his lineage had given him. His distaste for winter snows was no less a part of him than his dark hair and burnt skin. It didn’t matter, he supposed all those people in the southern states hated the cold too, and they were Americans born and bred. 

He didn’t look back at his friends, just made a beeline for the water. As he walked he dropped his towel and kicked off his shoes, then the cool river was at his toes and his calves and his thighs and he was diving under. The wealthier folks swam further south over in Brooklyn, away from the city smog, and some even made the trip to Atlantic City, but everyone knew the grimy industry waters of the East River belonged to the Manhattan kids. They had it all figured out: the Jews had their place along the shore, the Italians theirs, and the Irish theirs. Of course, the Irish couldn’t ever just follow the fucking rules.

“Sal!”

He came up for air, the salt water washing his face and clinging to his curls.

“Sal!”

He turned around. His friend was waving him in; something was happening on the beach. Dammit. He swam in fast and joined the growing mass. All kinds of kids were watching some altercation between, from the division in the crowd, he could only assume was a Jew and a Mick. 

“The fuck’s the problem?” His friend said to him.

“Don’t know,” Sal replied.

“Think it’s the Irish one who’s got a problem with the Jew. Crap game or something, maybe? Who knows?” Another boy said, an Italian. Sal looked at him. “Christ, you think he’d give him a break, the Jew’s smaller than my kid brother.”

Sal’s head snapped back to the scene. He began to shove his way through, much to the chagrin of other. He peered over a couple of heads. Low and behold it was the little Jewish kid from the street. He remembered the name: _Meyer Lansky_. It rang through his head as separate syllables, just like the kid had said it. Three Irish boys who looked twice his age were towering over him, and by God the prick was standing tall and looking angry about it too. He had to give it to him, the kid had nerve. Stubborn, naïve, stupid nerve, but nerve nonetheless. He didn’t know what the argument was about, but he liked the Jew and he didn’t like these Mick fucks, so the decision wasn’t hard.

“Maybe you’d better run back to your side before this gets ugly.” He shouted. The main one turned around, and Sal felt even more solid in his decision. The Mick was an asshole from the neighborhood, and he spent most his time hurling ethnic slurs and losing crap games. He was an idiot, but he was mean too. Sal had heard too many stories about the kinds of shit he did to turn around now. The Irish boy stepped forward.

“What are you, his pet dago?” he grinned, “You might wanna sit this one out, wop.”

“Fuck outta here,” Sal grumbled. He swung his arm back and punched him. There was a loud crack, his nose probably. The two other Irish kids pulled him off, one punched Sal and the other went to grab Meyer, who, in outstanding reflex, had already moved behind him and smashed him in the back of his knees. It was a mess, a rough fight and as soon as Sal got one down another swung at him. Then he heard it, the silky chime of metal shooting out from a casing. He had no reservations; he pulled his own switchblade from the back of the shorts he had been swimming in. The Irish boy danced around, jumping in and out to try to scare him. The other two Irish kids had grabbed Meyer, and though he looked like he was spitting venom, Sal could see the glint of fear in his eyes. The leader threw his arm out so the knife was just under Meyer’s chin.

“Well? What are you gonna do about your little kike boyfriend—“ He choked off. Sal had stabbed him just under his rib. The boys dropped Meyer and the crowd began to scatter. He withdrew the blade and the boy fell back on one of his friends. Sal recognized an escape when he saw one, and in a few quick strides was well into the moving crowd, weaving in and out hoping to disappear. He didn’t think the cops would come, but you could never be too careful. When he reached the edge of the beach he looked back, eyes scanning the sand. The Irish boys had taken their friend somewhere, probably for help. Sal couldn’t see them. He let his gaze wander until they came to a closer curve on the side of the shore. There was Meyer, safe from the chaos and, on the surface at least, unfazed. He was looking right at him, and Sal couldn’t help but notice the kid had the darkest pair of eyes he had ever seen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lower East Side, 1917**

There was something about being the first son _and_ a disappointment that was really just the end for his father. At least, that's what Charlie guessed. It made more sense than assuming his father hated him for no specific reason, which to be fair could also have been the case.

The third punch landed a solid blow on his cheekbone. In his daze, he had forgotten to duck. He could hear his mother screaming, begging. She was following Antonio... somewhere? He was gone, Charlie couldn't see him. Oh, he was back. He had something black in his hand. A belt. Charlie scrambled to stand.

"You come back into this house, a new boy, a _liar_ — disrespectful—" the belt sliced across his face, and for a moment Charlie thought he had gone blind. He felt his mother's arms around him, hands trying to hold on as Antonio dragged her away. Charlie shrugged from her grasp and reached for a chair from the table, still attempting to stand.

It had started at dinner. He hadn't been living at home for some time, but he liked to come around once in a while for his mother at least. It was a tense conversation, and his father had asked him about work. Charlie, not noticing the bait and strange look in Antonio's eyes, told him he had spent the day working at Max Goodman's store. What he didn't know was that just that afternoon Mr. Goodman had been by the apartment to ask Rosalia to talk to her son, get him to come back to the store and make a good, honest living. And so spurred the scene: Rosalia screaming, Antonio with a belt he only kept for Charlie, and his siblings covering their ears in the kitchen. To be honest, Charlie didn't know if his father was angrier about his name change or his day job as a thief. Both, probably. Well, definitely both.

He managed to stand, and pushed at the chair for momentum towards the door.

"You come back here I'll kill you!"

He stumbled down the steps, out of the complex. Unsurprisingly, the altercation stirred no intrigue from the neighbors. He could hear his mother from the steps.

"Salvatore, _please!_ "

But he was already gone.

 

He wasn’t really sure what made him go to Meyer's; he didn't make a habit of people seeing him while he was in such a state, but before he really registered the direction he had turned he was at the front of Meyer's tenement house. He walked in the door, slid past a couple of angry looking people who eyed his very Italian features with mild suspicion, and walked up the steps. He knocked on the door.

Thankfully, Meyer opened it. His face was startled, then grew into a grin. "What happened to you?"

"I went home." He mumbled.

The smile fell from Meyer's face. "Come inside," he said.

Charlie walked into the apartment carefully, anxious about running into Jake or Max or, even worse, Yetta. Meyer seemed to sense this.

"They're out. He's at work, she's at the market and Esther's with her; don't know where Jake is." He said, leading him from one small room to the next. He grabbed some things from the kitchen— a rag, a bottle, some gauze, another rag. Charlie then followed him into the room at the end of the little hall. It had two piles of blankets with some kind of padding laid under them. One for Esther and the other for Jake and Meyer.

"Sit down," Meyer nodded to the bigger pile; an old quilt laid on top. Charlie sat down and watched the other boy leave again, this time with a water basin that was in the room. He came back after a moment, his arms stretched out wide to hold the bowl, now filled with water, that was much too big for him. He placed it with the other items on the floor next to Charlie and sat down close to him.

"What am I? Dying? Christ."

"You're bleeding," Meyer answered, taking the rag and wiping at the blood that had dried on his chin.

The door, not half closed, was suddenly thrown open. Charlie jumped. Meyer spun around to find his mother at the threshold. He hadn't heard her come in the apartment. Her face went from shocked to chastising very quickly and he jumped up and led her from the room with a professional calm. He closed the door on Charlie and turned to her. He spoke delicately.

"Mama—"

"I hear from neighbors you bring a bleeding boy in here I should have known it would be him!"

"You like Charlie." He pointed out, frowning.

"Charlie?" The word sounded foreign on her tongue.

"That's what he likes to be called now."

"Since when!"

"Does it matter?"

She huffed and put a hand on her hip. She was small like Meyer, but frightening in the narrow hallway.

"Yes. I like him. I _liked_ him before he make a mess of himself. Who he hurt to be covered in blood like that? You play those games in the street like animals! These boys so mean! They hurt you, you hurt them, and for what? You—"

"It was his father."

"What?"

He looked at her plainly, truly. He was so used to lying to her, the terrible feeling it laid in his stomach; he was surprised at how fresh it felt to tell the truth. She knew it too, he could see.

She looked at the door behind him.

"Well... I... I make him tea." She said.

Meyer watched her turn for the kitchen and then walked back into the room. Charlie was watching the quilt pattern with intensity. The walls were paper, Meyer knew he had heard everything and was relieved to find him pretending he hadn't. He resumed his position next to him on the bed and picked up the alcohol and the rag. He wet it and pressed it to an ugly slash on Charlie's cheekbone.

He hissed. "Watch it."

"You just got thrown across a room and this you complain about?"

He looked away. "Whatever."

Meyer finished with the cut and folded the rag again, dipping the dry side in the water basin. He began to smooth it over the other side of Charlie's face.

"They're just bruises," he mumbled, "you don't gotta, it won't help."

But he didn't move away from him, so Meyer kept on. After a moment, Charlie looked down at him.

"You know, when I was away you got bigger."

Meyer scoffed. "Oh sure, I’m almost to your shoulder now."

He chuckled. "I'm serious, you don't look like a kid no more is all."

"I could be forty and I'd still look like a kid."

Charlie frowned and shrugged, "Relativity."

"Shut up," he laughed, shoving him.

"Watch it, I’m dying here."

"Deepest apologies." They lapsed into silence for some time. He could hear the kettle screaming in the kitchen, then calmed. He was still dragging the rag over the details of Charlie's face.

"You know, you changed too."

Charlie, his eyes closed, hummed a vaguely interested noise. Meyer continued.

"You're taller." He paused. "You don't have those pimples anymore."

Charlie's eyes snapped open and he shoved back at him.

"Hey!" Meyer said, laughing, "Not saying I blame you... all you poor Italians sweat grease."

"Fuck you." Charlie laughed.

"Sicilians, sorry."

"Shvaygn, yeah?"

"Oo Yiddish, you're a world class man."

"Maybe I am."

"Who taught you that?"

Charlie turned to look at Meyer, rag in hand and grinning like an idiot.

"You look like ah...?"

"Pisher?" Meyer offered.

"Yeah!"

"Fuck you."

A knock on the door. Meyer felt his face go red at the thought of his mother having heard him. She opened the door but seemed more preoccupied with the tea she was carrying. He jumped up to help, taking the cups from her and giving one to Charlie.

"Thank you, Mrs. Lansky." Charlie said, taking it from Meyer.

She smiled at him and put a hand gently to his face. Now it was Charlie who blushed.

"Your Yiddish is terrible." She said, still smiling, then turned and left them.

Meyer, nervous, wasn't sure to laugh or not. Charlie shook his head as she closed the door.

"Well, damn."

"Drink your tea," Meyer said quietly and joined him on the floor.

Charlie took a gulp and then frowned. He nodded to the medical alcohol. "You think that stuff works... like normal?"

"Are you going to find out?" He responded dryly. The older boy grinned and poured a touch of the liquid into his tea. "That looks disgusting."

He shrugged, took a gulp, and winced. "Yeah, pretty awful."

Meyer eyed the tea with intrigue and Charlie handed it to him. He drank.

"Oy, ew, tastes like a bonfire."

Charlie laughed and took it back, taking another sip and grimacing.

\---

Meyer still had no idea where Jake was, but it was early in the evening so he wasn't worried. Maybe Yetta had sent him back out; she hadn't so much as come down the hall since she brought the tea. She kept Esther from the room too. He assumed she was being courteous to Charlie, who, a rough young man, was not overly eager to discuss his emotions over the home incident, and probably needed some time alone. Well, alone with Meyer, which to everyone seemed the same. This was all very convenient as the two boys were already giggles and mildly slurred speech from their poor decision to drink the medical alcohol.

"S'was a terrible idea." Charlie said, laughing into his knees. Meyer shook his head.

"Your idea, so yeah, terrible."

"You're a bully."

" _I'm_ the bully? I'd harken back to our first meeting, but I don't think you have the remaining brain cells to remember it."

"I remember!" Charlie exclaimed, affronted. "You were about two feet tall and cute as a button—" he pushed a finger to Meyers nose. "— and you told me to go fuck myself."

"Did you take my advice?"

"Oo, that’s _forward_." He raised an eyebrow at Meyer, who rolled his eyes.

"Gross. Not what I meant."

"Sorry to violate your virgin ears."

Meyer blushed, more embarrassed than shy. "Shut up," he grumbled.

"You're still a kid, I forget. Always bossing me around like you're my mother."

"You're a kid," Meyer pointed out, pushing his shoulder against Charlie's.

"Dunno, things change." He shrugged and directed back down to the quilt. Meyer watched. He promised he wouldn't ask about prison, but he could guess the general idea. Whatever is was, he didn't like it when Charlie was sad. Charlie was fun; he was warm sun and loud jokes and running through the streets. Meyer was supposed to be the monotone one; grayscale and moody.

"You said I was all grown anyway." Meyer reminded him, poking a finger into his chest.

"Yeah yeah, guess so." He put his weight on the arm that was behind Meyer and placed his chin on top of his head. To his surprise, Meyer offered no reaction. In fact, the smaller boy even seemed to relax a little; he let poor posture creep into his spine. They stayed like that for longer than a moment. The sounds of Yetta moving about the apartment echoed back to them; Esther was talking to her about something. School, maybe. The two boys continued in silence, steady breathing. Even with their mutual ease, it would have been too long if they were sober, but they weren't so they didn't care. Charlie decided to shift slightly; about half an inch to take the pressure off his arm. He tilted his face down and notice with mixed feelings how soft Meyer's hair was. It was dark— not darker than his, but a deep brown. It smelled good too, or maybe that was just Meyer. Like engine grease and halva and candle wax.

He shifted again. This time his nose trailed a line from the top of Meyer's head down the side of his face. He bumped their noses together and Meyer smiled, dark eyes glazed and far away. Charlie, is a similar daze— the heat of the room, bruise of his bones, fog of the alcohol— dropped his face a little further and a little closer. His lips brushed the side of Meyer's. He looked up at him, but the younger boy had closed his eyes now and seemed to offer no objection. Charlie closed his eyes too and, without even a breath, pressed their mouths together. He felt soft lips move gently against his own— for a moment. Then Meyer pulled back and stared at him with wide eyes. It was all half a second when—

"Sorry." Charlie slurred, shook his head and laid, his body curved, on the bed. It was a moment before Meyer joined him, body also curved at the same strange angle; close but not touching. He didn't say anything, but Charlie knew it was fine. It was over. The rise and fall of Meyer's small chest assured him it would be forgotten in the morning. He felt inexplicably tired.


	3. Chapter 3

**Midtown, 1919**

Winter brought a harsh wind that rattled the windows and seeped into every home and every bone. It was a bitter cold, unexpected—at least by Charlie who always fought with every last breath to hold on to the warmer autumn days. They were indoors, but it was still freezing. He huffed, shivered, and leaned back on the wall.

“’Course I know about him, Mey. Everybody who reads a paper _knows_ about him.” He stood up straight. “And that’s another thing! Ain’t you the one always saying ‘lay low, be careful’?”

“Yes, well, we’ve spoken on that, and he maintains it was an unfortunate misunderstanding—“

“So he didn’t shell out a million dollars to ever White Sox player—that what you’re telling me?”

Meyer’s lips thinned. “Yes, Charlie, that is what I’m telling you.”

“Damn shame, would’ve been impressive if he did.” Benny said, hopping up on a table.

Meyer sighed and spoke over Benny. “What is it you’re saying? What’s the problem?”

Charlie shifted. "It’s just…how's this big shot gonna work out for us anyway?"

" _Respect_ , Charlie, it's important to make a good impression."

"It's not like he's right behind me, Mey."

Meyer frowned, serious. "This could be very good for us."

"Better than what any of those old, fat Sicilian fucks could give ya." Benny chimed in with a crude grin.

Charlie glared at him, "The fuck you know about it?" He added: "The _fuck_ you know about respect either you little fucking—"

" _Charlie._ "

"What?"

"Somehow, I find Benny to be of lesser priority right now." He moved into the next room and Charlie trailed behind. Benny, previously smiling, now frowned.

"Wait," he called after them. "You mean him nagging on me is less or me—I'm less? Meyer?"

In the next room, Charlie continued, "Alright so I meet him, then what?"

Meyer turned sharply. "Listen to me, this is very important—"

"Why you keep saying that? I got it!" He shot back, "What do I look like some sort of moron or something?"

"You do have a tendency to..."

Charlie's brow furrowed. "What?"

He sighed, "You just rush into things— he isn't some fast partner or easy money or anything like that— he's big, Charlie, and important. This is what we need."

Charlie rolled his eyes and replied sarcastically, "Our big break at last."

"Yes." Meyer said flatly and Charlie faltered. Then, Meyer grabbed his notebook from the desk and put a pencil in his pocket. He looked hard at his friend. "I need to know if you're with me on this. It's a blood deal here, I won't go without you."

Charlie looked back at those dark eyes. He wanted to flinch, to look away, like he was seeing some awful carnage, but he stayed his gaze. "Yeah. I'm with you."

"Good." He said, then moved to take his hat and button his coat. "I'm going to the track to keep numbers. You'll come by Lindy's at four to meet Mr. Rothstein and myself, and we'll go from there."

"Alright." He was still watching Meyer, eyes trained on his face and following his movements.

“I have no idea what he’s going to say or offer, but—“

“Take it.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll decide later.”

“Right.” 

“Better to play nice, make friends now.”

“Exactly.” 

Charlie smiled, “I’m with you.”

Meyer grinned back at him.

“Oy,” Benny called from the door. “You two gonna stare at each other all day or we gonna make some money?” 

\---

Meyer shifted in the booth. It wasn’t quite four yet, they were fine. He didn’t know they’d finish early, not Charlie’s fault… anyway, Rothstein was fine. The older man sipped at his milk. What a goddamn character.

“What did you think, Meyer?”

“The races?” He shrugged, “Not my sport, but certainly a wise investment.”

Rothstein hummed. “What is your ‘sport’, then?”

“Oh, I’m not sure.”

“You’re certainly a good gambler.”

“No, I’m just good at math.”

“Then you don’t enjoy it?”

“I do, I do, but at the end of the day the house wins so,” He shrugged again, “I prefer to be the house.”

Rothstein chuckled. “Wise words. You’re an impressive young man, and quite intelligent, but you didn’t finish schooling, if I remember correctly? You know, the synagogue, they’re always selling secrets…”

“Oh, it’s no secret,” Should it be? Was he supposed to act embarrassed about dropping out to work? Did Rothstein prefer he had a diploma? He shifted again. “I suppose I became bored.”

“Bored with school? But not with academics?” he gestured to Meyer’s notebook. The younger man smiled.

“No, I suppose not.”

The door chimed, and Meyer forced himself into a casual glance back. Relief. There Charlie was, of course he was, he always was; curls slicked back and hat politely clasped in his hand. His eyes scanned the room until they met Meyer’s. His gaze flicked up to Rothstein.

“This is our young man?”

Meyer nodded. Rothstein waved Charlie over. He stuck out his hand and the older man grasped it.

“Please, sit.” 

He shared the booth seat with Meyer.

“I’ve heard much about you,” his lips twitched into the trace of a smile. “It seems you’re the man I’ve been looking for.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Depends on what you need.”

Much to Meyer’s relief, Rothstein laughed. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

Charlie shrugged. “I’m good for most things, and I’m a fast learner.”

“And you like to make money.”

“’Course." He said. "Don’t we all?"

Rothstein nodded. “It just so happens in a few days we will be in a great deal of luck, with plenty for us all. I’m quite good at recognizing opportunities when I see them, and in this prosperous time I’ll be needing smart and fast young men like yourselves.”

Meyer leaned into Charlie. “Mr. Rothstein has on good authority that the Eighteenth Amendment will be of interest to… our brand of business.”

Charlie shrugged. “We don’t do bootlegging.”

Rothstein smiled. “Ah, but you will.” Charlie opened his mouth to respond but Rothstein continued. “And you like to make money, don’t you Charlie?”

He bristled at the use of his first name, but the press of Meyer’s leg against his own eased his mood. He barked a laugh and leaned back. “Sure.”

“Then,” he looked between the two younger men, “You’re my man?”

“Whatever that means, yeah.” Charlie sat forward again. “One question, though.”

“A million questions, Charlie, ask them.”

“You don’t care I’m a wop?”

Meyer jumped forward. “What he means is that—“

Rothstein laughed again. “It’s alright, Meyer. I like him.” He took a drink from his milk. “No, I do not care, Mr. Luciano. Any last concerns?”

They looked at each other.

“Well, that settles it then. Thank you for your company today, Meyer. I, myself, must be returning home. Good day, boys. I’ll expect you tomorrow at noon?”

“Of course, Mr. Rothstein.” Meyer nudged Charlie to stand. Rothstein dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table, tipped his hat to them, and left. 

As the door shut Meyer collapsed back onto the booth seat. Charlie turned and looked down at him. He grinned.

“That went well.”

Meyer kicked him.

“Ow!”

“We had a plan, Charlie!”

“Yeah?”

Meyer opened his mouth, closed it, and started to shake with laughter. “Yeah, okay.”

Charlie let his hand out and helped his friend out of the booth. 

“Let’s have a drink.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry this took forever! I feel really weird about writing explicit-ish scenes so it kind of took me a while (and also school and all of that garbage). Anyway, uh, here you go

**Northern New Jersey, Midtown Manhattan, 1924.**

He was shaking, not visibly, not really, but his insides felt like a train car. Vibrations from his rib cage to his knees— knees that were begging to bounce up and down in the car. He took note to calm them, to calm himself. He just felt so fucking... _good_.

They had pulled it off. The stake out, the car jack, the stand-off. They walked away with cash and product—not just theirs, either. Every idiot knew what these back roads meant; there was only one way in and out of New York from the south, and someone's gotta get their cut. But it wasn't just about that, this was _them_. No pick-ups for AR, no answering to fucking _Masseria_ , even Benny wasn't around to ruin the moment; just Charlie and Meyer and the racket of a new Model T.

Charlie couldn't stop grinning, he felt so _high_. Almost better than dope. He looked at Meyer, who was calmly driving; eyes trained on the road. But those eyes were alive, and those hands grasped the wheel with white knuckles and an occasional drumming finger. He was there too, with Charlie. _High_.

Okay, definitely better than dope.

Charlie wanted to say something, to shout or scream, but nothing seemed right. There was an undercurrent to it, too. Something electric beneath the surface, buzzing its way to the top. Every wave of gratification was met with a displaced possessiveness; a feeling of disordered excitement. He glanced to Meyer again, and this time caught his eye. The younger man smiled wickedly, then his eyes flicked back to the road. No, Charlie didn't need to talk. He could sit in this, wait, enjoy it. He continued to watch Meyer. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Charlie followed the vein from his hand up through his forearm. Then, his neck; his jaw cut a harsh angle and Charlie watched with wonder as he swallowed dryly, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His nose was a straight line leading to his brow, which dark eyes sat hooded under. His hair was coming loose of the pomade, falling in his eyes the way Charlie liked it.

He ripped his gaze away and looked back to the window, eyes following the disappearing road. It was a strange mix: this raw energy, this intense bond, and this _something else_. But however strong, it wasn't new, and he shook his head free of thoughts and leaned back into his seat. An hour or so and they'd be at the Claridge celebrating their victory through inordinate amounts of alcohol.

Charlie smiled, eyes closed and head tipped back. He didn't feel Meyer's eyes on him. Didn't see the other man's matching gaze. The road bumped. A gaze became glances: to bouncing curls, to the line of a neck, to the stretch of fabric across thighs.

Another bump.

Meyer locked his eyes on the road. He changed gears, and hit the gas.

\---

Charlie hadn't realized he had blood on his face. Just a little, enough for the man at the front desk to avert his eyes. _Right this way, Mr. Lane._ He liked that man; he was young and shy and blushed easily. Charlie chuckled to himself and turned the faucet on. His jacket and shoes had already come off, and his holster was hung with Meyer's in the parlor, so he just rolled up his shirtsleeves and shrugged out of his suspenders. He heard glasses clink in the bedroom behind him.

"What'll you have?" Meyer called to him.

"Hmm," he leaned over the sink. "I think I'll go whisky."

"Classic, regal," more glasses ringing, "Yet simple. An important man with the wisdom of the street."

Charlie laughed and shook his head. He splashed water onto his face and rubbed the red from under his jaw. He used his wet hand to pull some more of his curls loose, then he shook them violently. Water sprinkled the mirror. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and looked at the reflection. His eyes caught Meyer's, who was standing in the threshold behind him with a cigarette in his mouth and two crystal tumblers in his hands. He was undone too: collar off and open, forearms still exposed. Charlie turned to him, grinning. Then, he joined him in the doorway, turning and leaning back on the frame. Meyer mirrored him and handed him a glass. With his now free hand he took his cigarette from his mouth. Out came smoke rings: two small ones. He then took a deep drag and let his mouth form a big "O"; a larger ring floated up to Charlie's face.

As Meyer returned the cigarette to his lips Charlie reached out and plucked it away. He took a drag and exhaled. He downed his whisky, put the cigarette out in the crystal, and leaned to place it on the bathroom counter.

"Cheers?" Meyer said, smiling.

"Salud."

Meyer threw his drink back and put it down next to Charlie's. He looked down at his feet, one on carpet and one on tile. He pushed his toes into the carpet.

"Like having this place," Charlie said. "S'nice."

"Convenient for business."

"Nah, no I mean... just, nice." He watched Meyer. "Havin' a place that's our own and all."

The younger man chuckled. "You have a place that's yours—your apartment is four blocks away."

"Yeah but this isn't mine, it's _ours_."

Meyer looked up at him strangely. He shifted.

"I don't know. Never mind." Charlie amended quietly.

"No, Charlie, it's..." They looked at each other, and Meyer nodded and looked away again. "Yeah."

Standing in the doorway like that, Charlie felt like a kid. Hell, they were kids, pretty much anyway. And they were out here with guns and cash and expensive suites in high class hotels. But he was watching Meyer watch the floor, and something old tugged at him. He felt small and dizzy, like he was back in Meyer’s broken tenement room fingering that old patterned quilt. He felt himself lean forward and Meyer's head snapped up to look at him. Their eyes locked, but Charlie didn't stop. Slowly, he inched closer, until finally he closed his eyes and let their lips touch.

He remembered the first time.

_Meyer pulling away. Too young. Charlie was too old, now he's too old. Sorry. Ruined again. Sorry. Not drunk enough, not enough, sorry—_

He pulled back fast, but suddenly there were hands holding his face, lips pressing hard onto him. His back slammed against the door frame. And Meyer's lips— they were soft but persistent. Not like Charlie's; Meyer wasn't nervous. He pushed his body up closer to Charlie, who gasped. Meyer took the chance; tongues together now, wet and sweet and _what the fuck_ —

Charlie jerked back and Meyer froze. He looked like a cat, eyes wide and body tense, like he was ready to dart out of the room at the slightest hint of movement. Alright, maybe he was nervous. Charlie didn't know what to do, what to say. Usually he was the smooth one, the aggressor, the charmer. He wasn't used to being thrown against door frames and, well, _climbed_. Especially not by his boyhood best friend whose hair was now _definitely in his eyes_ and lips were _red and wet and pretty and_ —

"Is this okay?" He asked.

Meyer stared for a moment longer, then relaxed. Then he smiled. Then he laughed. He was laughing and nodding.

"Charlie," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Come here."

Charlie leaned down and they were kissing again. He pushed the suspenders off his shoulders and felt Meyer's hands at his waist and then— _oh_ — down the front of his pants. He was being walked backwards. He dropped on the bed, but before he could make any further attempts at undressing he was pushed back onto the mattress. Meyer, who had, in all honesty, tripped, took the opportunity to slide a leg between Charlie’s thighs. Any coherent thoughts Charlie had previously been holding on to (worries, wonders, general confusion) flew from his mind. Meyer was on top of him, licking into his mouth, with an insistent leg making soft circular motions against his groin. He moaned. Meyer pressed further. He moaned again. 

“No, Charlie,” Meyer said, words muffled by dazed kisses “Move up.”

It took him a moment to process. “Oh,” he finally said, and scooted himself further up on the bed. He reached up and pulled Meyer down again. Their noses collided.

“Sorry,” Charlie mumbled, wondering when the fuck he became such a _schlemiel_.

But Meyer didn’t take notice, he was much too busy situating himself on and between Charlie’s legs to notice the other man blushing. He ground down his hips but it didn’t work right. Charlie whimpered. He shifted and tried again, picking Charlie’s hips up slightly. _Oh, there it is_. They both moaned together, and the Sicilian’s hands were suddenly tearing at the buttons on his shirt, opening up the collar and sucking at the warm skin. _Fuck_ , Meyer moaned at that too. But the position was still strange, too much work. With a hand on each of Charlie’s thighs, he pulled him up and into his lap. 

Not that he would ever admit it to a living soul until he died, but Charlie _loved_ that. He clung to Meyer’s shoulders—when did they get so _broad_ —and tried to muffle his very embarrassing sounds in Meyer’s mouth. He spread his legs wider to fit the smaller man, then closed his thighs tight around him. 

Meyer, attentive and not a complete idiot, took the hint and grabbed Charlie’s hips tightly, pressed them down against his own. This received a chorus of whimpers and moans, some of which were his own. It was hard not to be loud, not to rut up like an animal against Charlie and moan in his ear. Especially when Charlie had no absolutely _no filter_. 

He moaned and whimpered and _panted_ as they thrust together, and on the end of every breath was a crack and a whined _yes diu pi fauri fuck_ and, not that Meyer would ever tell him, he sounded like the most expensive whores from uptown. It was driving Meyer fucking _wild_. He threw Charlie back down again, this time holding his legs open so he could line their hips up right. He was shaking too, Charlie could see it, and he let his fingers ghost softly over the back of Meyer’s hand. Meyer stopped and looked at him, then Charlie’s expression abruptly changed.

“Please don’t fucking stop.”

Meyer couldn’t help but grin. “Alright.”

They were on each other again, movements smooth and cohesive at first, but quickly falling out of rhythm as they began to near climax. Charlie, hyper aware of the fact that he was about to finish in under ten minutes while completely clothed, thought to push him back, to slow down, but then Meyer’s mouth was on his again and there were hands tugging on his hair and pressing down his hips and _fuck it_. He pulled Meyer down closer and pressed a strong hand down his back. It didn’t matter anyway, really; Meyer was close and so was he and they were close _together_ and then—

“Meyer,” he gasped against his ear. “Come.”

He groaned loudly into Charlie’s neck, shaking as he came. That was it for Charlie too, who after a few desperate thrusts followed with a loud “ _Fuck._ ”  
It was a good minute or so before Meyer garnered back the energy to move. He pushed himself off Charlie, leaning back on his heels with a wince at the uncomfortable dampness against his leg. Charlie, for his part, was still piecing his brain back together and reeling over the flood of embarrassment from his fast predicament. He was still breathing heavily as he opened his eyes to look at Meyer. An animal in headlights again, Meyer’s body was stiff and his eyes were wide, staring at him and yet past him at some unknown memory or feeling. Charlie knew the look, he knew what sudden movements would do, and he wasn’t quite ready to lose this moment to the panic of their situation. He sat up on his elbows and nodded to the bathroom.

“I’m gonna take a bath.”

Meyer’s eyes snapped to his. “A bath?” He sounded incredulous.

Charlie shrugged, “I don’t know, yeah.” He gave a lazy smile. “I feel good, don’t wanna lose it.”

Meyer blinked at him.

“Anyway,” he sat up further and moved off of the bed, careful not to touch his friend, but before he was all gone he turned close to him. “I wouldn’t mind company.”

Then he was gone, and Meyer felt very cold and very alone and very much a lot of things he thought he had forgotten. He heard the sound of the running water, far away; he heard the sound of Charlie, louder than usual banging things around. 

Then, suddenly:

Charlie, relaxed and cool and unfazed, lounging on the edge of the counter half dressed. Meyer was standing in the doorway. 

“Mey,”

“Yeah?”

“Come here.”

“Okay.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all it's SAD, sorry, it's only gonna get worse so also sorry!! One of these days I'll make a big gay wedding AU, but for now have this tragic garbage.

**Richmond Memorial Hospital, Staten Island, 1929**

“I don’t know how I feel about this, Charlie, I gotta be honest with you.” Frank shook his head and lit a cigarette.

“Well that’s the way it’s gonna be.” He was getting agitated, he didn’t like all of them in the room, _staring_. He didn’t like feeling like an old man, tucked into bed. He didn’t like that half of his fucking face was swollen shut. He didn’t like the way the nurses avoided looking at him and hastened from the room. He didn’t like the way the sterile sheets smelled. And he fucking _hated_ that Meyer hadn’t said a goddamn _word_ in the whole two hours. “Anybody moves without my say-so there’s gonna be hell to pay. All of this? It’s done. You leave this room and that’s it, not another word—about this, about me, about any of it.”

“Alright,” Frank sighed. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Charlie…” He turned his head to look at Tommy. “You know why we didn’t come before, you know Meyer said we gotta lay low and—“

“Forget about it,” He went to wave his arm and winced. “I know.”

Tommy nodded, and they all sat in a prolonged and increasingly awkward silence. Meyer was looking at him, he couldn’t see him, but he knew. He had sat on the right side of the bed, on Charlie’s bad side, because he knew he was the only one he’d trust out of his sight. It was meant to relax him, but he felt far away and scared and not being able to see Meyer certainly wasn’t helping.

Benny was the only one besides the two of them to notice. Meyer, sitting back in the uncomfortable visitors’ chair they had dragged in from the hall, dark eyes pinned to Charlie. Charlie, stiff in the bed with hackles raised, tired eyes looking anywhere but Meyer. With an uncharacteristic awareness, Benny stood and stretched, letting out an obnoxious noise.

“Okay, fuck it then, let’s go.” He looked around at the other men who remained seated. “Well what the fuck are you looking at?”

“Alright, Benny,” Frank grumbled. “Cool it.”

“You good?” Tommy was looking at Charlie with earnest eyes. 

“Yeah, Tommy,” He said. “Get outta here before the cops come back sniffin’ around.”

“Fuck that, I just want a sandwich.” Benny shrugged, but hung behind to usher the other men from the room. He dropped his guard for a moment to look back at Meyer, but his gaze was still on Charlie. Benny stepped out and shut the door.

The air was cold. The sheets were scratchy. 

“ _What?_ ” He bit out at last, eyes still glued to the other side of the room.

He heard a sigh, a shift of clothing over body. There was a hand on his leg. 

“Nothing, Charlie.” It was soft, an apology. 

Finally, he looked at him. Saw his eyes, hooded under a brow creased with worry. He wasn’t angry or put out or apathetic, he was scared. Charlie hadn’t realized. They were sitting in the same room and feeling the same thing and for once in his life he hadn’t realized. He wasn’t sure if it was because it had been distant weeks since he had seen him, a family and too many disagreements between them; or of it was because he was frustrated with himself and the situation and there was no one else to project that bitter taste on who would still forgive him. He hoped it was the latter. The people who love us forgive us.

“I—“ Meyer broke off, swallowed, and started again. “I’m _so sorry_. If I had known, if Genovese had fucking two brain cells worth of _reason_ , if it had been me—“

“But it _wasn’t_.” Charlie moved his leg away, suddenly he felt the anger rattle in his bones. “You weren’t there, Meyer, you were _I don’t fucking know where_.”

He winced, grimaced, and nodded. It was all he could do really. He remembered hearing, remembered getting the call. He remembered Benny having to drag him from the room, having to break away from him and go alone as the tears burned in his eyes. Someone was going to pay for it, someone was going to fucking die for it, but it was Charlie who had to speak the word of truth, the word he had been saying for years. _Wait_.

“He is going to die, Charlie.” Each word was pronounced with its own crystal diction. “I will make sure of it.”

“Not yet.”

“No, Masseria first.” He moved closer and grabbed Charlie’s hand with a grip that bordered on desperation. _Don’t pull away_. “We’ll do it how he wants. You’ll get the credit, the honor. Then he’ll never suspect you.”

“You don’t ever kill no one.”

“Maybe I will.”

Charlie looked at him again. He shifted his fingers to loosen the grip, but only moved his hand around Meyer’s. He let the tips of their fingers touch, then trailed down to press his palm. He’d always liked Meyer’s hands; strong and callused and bruised in all the right places. He smiled a little bitterly.

“Guess I should apologize.”

“For what?” 

“I ain’t exactly pretty no more.” He let out a hollow laugh. Meyer felt his eyes burn. He gripped Charlie’s hand and stood, but then the door was opening and he was stepping away. Hands dropped as he swallowed down the acrid acid rising in the back of his throat.

“Excuse me, I have medication for Mr. Luciano.” She said it wrong.

“Leave it there.” Meyer nodded to the side table.

“I’m supposed to administer it.” She pushed out a nurse’s hip, mildly annoyed.

“You can leave it there.” Meyer gave a look, one of _those_ looks, and she quickly decided it wasn’t worth the fight. Placing the medicine on the table, she turned on her heel and left.

“Take it with you.” Charlie said, gesturing to the pills and eager to change the course of the conversation.

“It’s medication, you had better take it.”

“It’s for pain,” he replied. “I don’t want it.”

Meyer looked at him. The drop of his brow, the angry scar coming down from his eye to his cheek. He had bandages under his shirt, Meyer knew, for keeping together the broken ribs and a bruised collar bone. His lip was gashed, his eyes were ringed in blue, and his knuckles were broken open from attempts at defense.

“Charlie,” he said very quietly and gave a long pause. “Take the fucking pills.”

Charlie frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it, then reached over to the table. He took the small paper cup and threw the pills back in his mouth, swallowing with a grimace. 

Meyer looked away, out the window. He knew they were on the fourth floor, and that every room had windows, but it made him uneasy. He eyed the street, then the rooftops. He reached up with one hand to pull the curtain shut, then felt fingers interlace with the other. He turned to look at Charlie, who laid his head back, eyes closed. He moved Meyer’s hand up to his chest, over his heart. Suddenly, Meyer was struck. The heart beat through his bedclothes, through his skin; Meyer felt it at a steady rhythm like the seconds on a watch pacing on. 

_Alive_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Clinton Correctional Facility, Dannemora, New York, 1936**

He had been waiting _hours_. He knew they were probably doing it on purpose, relishing in the string they could keep him on. He couldn’t imagine what Charlie was feeling; probably still thought it was some joke. Maybe. Extradited from Arkansas. Maybe not.

Fucking _Arkansas_?

Meyer shifted again in his chair. He watched the guards behind the glass. Watched them whisper to each other, watched them glance at him. He shifted again. He checked his watch.

“Mr. Lansky?” A guard called from the gate, holding a book for registry. Meyer stood. “You can follow me.”

He entered through the gate, let them pat him down. Then he gave his ID, signed his name (again), and after some considering looks they decided he was of minimal threat and let him through. The walls were stone and the lights were sterile. His head and his heart were pounding as he walked through the halls to the visitation room. When at last they reached it, Meyer felt a drop in his stomach to see the glass between the seats, counters and plastic set between like makeshift stalls. He wouldn’t be able to touch him.

“You can wait here.” The guard said.

Waiting. Again.

He sat on a stool by the glass, ready to garner his patience when he heard the door clang open behind him. Charlie came in on the other side, a guard behind him but, seemingly, just for show. He didn’t have handcuffs on—much to Meyer’s relief— but he was in the foreboding stripes with a stamped “11” over his chest. Meyer took a closer look at him as he neared. His hair was washed, no pomade, but besides that not much had changed. There were no bruises or tell-tale signs of mistreatment. This Dewey asshole was careful. When Charlie sat and they finally made eye contact, he had the nerve to smile. He was beautiful.

“They washed your hair.” Meyer said, for some reason.

“They washed everything," He grimaced, "Unfortunately.”

Meyer frowned. “What do you— are you alright? Is it alright here?”

“Well, it ain’t the Waldorf,” Charlie shrugged. “But it ain’t Hampton Farms neither.”

“That’s something.” Meyer mumbled.

“I don’t know, guess I ain’t too pretty no more, plus the other guys are nervous around me.” He shook his head. “The papers made me out to be a real dangerous guy,   
like I got friends in special places.”

There were several things in that statement that made Meyer uncomfortable. He decided not to mention them. “You do have friends in special places, Charlie.”

“Really? The fuck am I sitting in here for, then?”

Meyer sighed. “He’s really fucking us over, Dewey—I mean he has accounts all lined up and, according to Frank’s men, over fifty from the cathouse raids.”

“ _Fuck_.” Charlie shifted closer to the glass. “But it don’t matter, yeah? I mean I didn’t have nothing to do with those whores or any of it. You know that, Mey, you know I got too much to give a shit about some cathouses downtown.”

“Yes, but the men used _your name_ , Charlie.” Meyer said. “So all of those women heard _your name_ , and when they get on the stand, the lawyers will ask who ran the houses and they’ll say _your name_.”

Charlie swallowed. “What about the guys? The pimps and the rackets and all that, they know I wasn’t really involved.”

“Yes, well,” Meyer lit a cigarette. “We’re working on that. Assuming we get to them before Dewey does which at this rate is unlikely.”

“So what does that mean?”

Meyer sighed again. “It means since these lawyers and police make the law, they get to decide when it bends. If Dewey is the honorable prosecutor he advertises himself to be, and the odds are in our favor, then this case will fall apart like a house of cards.” Meyer frowned. “But if he’s willing to play dirty, if his vendetta is strong enough, then we’ll be hard pressed to come out of this unscathed. A jury will always believe a reputation over a reality.”

“So, what?” His brow dropped lower as scowled. “I’m stuck here, that’s it? Life in prison and maybe I get to see you once a year if I’m good?”

“I’m doing what I can, Charlie.” The words were spoken carefully: a warning. 

They sat in silence. Meyer pursed his lips and looked away, eyes trailing casually over their surroundings. Charlie was watching him, and he could tell; could feel the itch beneath the surface. 

“If you go something to say, I think you’d better say it.”

Meyer looked at him. He opened his mouth, closed it, then took a breath. He was tasting his words. “You should have been more careful.”

Silence.

“You were too big, too flashy. Power is nice, Charlie, but it’s what put you here.”

“That what you think this is?” His voice was low, dangerous. “I was out there flashing my shit like fuckin’ Capone? It was too much and Dewey had it in for me?”

Meyer shook his head. “You were important enough that the men thought to use your name at the brothels. They wanted to seem powerfully back, Lucky Luciano would do that for them. Now, I have some ideas on how to work this, and Benny has been rather helpful—”

“Fuck you.”

Meyer blinked. Charlie plowed on.

“How dare you say I wasn’t careful? That I didn’t think?”

“Charlie—“

“Like I could’a known everything happening in New York fuckin’ City all at once?”

“Charlie—“

“All those years with Masseria and Maranzano breathing down my neck and you don’t think I’m _careful_?”

“Charlie, I’m not saying this is your fault.” The words came out jumbled, fast to cut him off, but they did their job and he stopped abruptly. 

Silence again. Worse this time, somehow. Uncomfortable. Awkward. 

“I should go.” Meyer stood.

Charlie’s hand slammed to the glass, palm flat and fingers spread, pressing to the barrier. His eyes were wide, suddenly; frightened. They were begging him for something, grasping at strands and reaching out across an insurmountable distance. 

Meyer placed his hand to the glass. He wanted more than anything to feel him through it, to feel warmth where their hands aligned, but all he felt was the cool of the window. 

Sad eyes met desperate ones. 

“I will fix this.”

Charlie's eyes, they knew.


	7. Chapter 7

**Havana, Cuba, 1946**

He let his fingers trail down the line of his spine and back up again. The knobs didn't protrude like before, but his back still sloped in towards the center. He was softer, probably with age. Charlie had never been much of an eater, especially when there was no one to eat with. Meyer could still feel the scars though, all the same afflictions; his body was familiar. The raised tissue on his shoulder blade from the bomb on the Boardwalk, the rib just a touch out of place from Maranzano's men, and then the curves covering it all. He should've noticed earlier in the evening, but they had been in too much of a frenzy to take the time.

Well, Charlie at least. Always _now please hurry there yes_. Meyer could be patient, he enjoyed it actually. If it was up to him it would take all night, all morning. Not that he minded. To be entirely honest, Charlie's unabashed and desperate _need_ was worth all of it. Meyer could keep him hours on the edge or have him shouting in ten minutes, either way he was getting Charlie on his back. It was surprisingly good too; better, even, than when they were young. He knew the spots and the touches, and it never bored him. It wasn't like Anna, and though he hated to think it, he did. He barely had to try with Charlie. Not because he was easy (although, to be fair, he was), but because they just knew. They knew when it was time for business, when it was time for silence, when it was time for sex; Meyer was quite sure he could never say another word to Charlie for the rest of his life and they would still run everything just as good as before. In fact, it would probably do Charlie good sometimes to just shut up.

He laughed without realizing. A hum came from the man on his chest.

“Sorry,” Meyer whispered.

“Whattimesit?”

He looked at his watch on his free arm. “Four AM.”

“Why the fuck are you awake?” He lifted his head up to look at him, a sleepy grin on his face. His hair was a mess of curls in every direction, now streaked with gray. More gray than Meyer remembered, more than he expected.

“Look at this,” he said, pulling a strand out straight.

“Tired of all that pomade shit.”

“I meant the gray.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Don't know. Getting’ old.”

"Not that old, what you have been worrying about up there?" He rested his hand on the side of his face, but Charlie turned away towards the nightstand. He grabbed a cigarette and struck a match.

"S'not as easy as you said."

"What?"

"Living. It was hell getting out here, gonna be hell getting back."

"Well, you're a prisoner Charlie."

"I can't look at the mainland without some officer breathing down my neck, it's more stressful than prison."

Meyer grimaced and shifted. "I think that's an overstatement."

Charlie sighed and looked over his shoulder at Meyer. "Yeah, sorry, I’m just being a baby." He pushed, then, quieter, "I miss you s'all."

There was a moment. Meyer poked a finger at his side. "You're getting fat." He said. "It's cute."

"Shut up," he replied, grinning. He took a drag of the cigarette and laid back down as he exhaled. He handed it to Meyer who did the same. They stared at the ceiling in a daze. It was wood. They were all built like that, the tropic homes. Cold tile floors and bleached wood ceilings to keep the air moving. It was cool at night, something Charlie hadn't expected, but the window had been shut for another reason. He looked at Meyer.

“This what you do in New York?”

“Lay around after extremely good sex?” He hummed. “No, it’s not a habit of mine.”

Charlie laughed. “The lying around or the sex?”

Meyer looked at him “Is that… jealousy, I detect?”

He frowned, the joke becoming dry. “No.”

Meyer ran his hands through his hair. “I’m kidding, Charlie.”

He shrugged. “I know.” He turned and curled into him. Meyer put out the cigarette. It was quiet, only the sound of soft breaths and some early morning bird singing through the window. Charlie pushed on, “Just wondering what you do up there all the time. I don’t know.”

“What I do? I do what I’ve always done. I run the business.”

A little tenseness; relaxed muscles coiling. 

“Well, you ain’t always run it alone.”

“I manage.” Meyer coughed. It echoed in the room. “Is that what you’re asking?”

Charlie sat up, warmth draining from the side of Meyer’s body. His stomach dropped.

“Why’s this so hard for you?” He said over his shoulder. “It’s just a question.”

“I just don’t really know what you’re asking me.”

“I don’t know.” A pause. Hesitance. Then: “If it’s all fine without me, I mean, why’d you have me come here then?”

Meyer sat up too, and moved to the side of the bed. “Well, of course you’re still the boss. They need your guidance, your acquiescence.” 

“You brought me here because you wanted me to sign off on all the shit you already decided on?”

“What?” Meyer looked back at him. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Alright, explain it to me.”

He stood, pulling on his pants and rummaging for his shirt. “It’s four in the morning.”

“Then where you going?”

“I need some air.”

“Too stiff in here for you, yeah?”

Meyer clenched his jaw and moved to the windowsill. He was getting increasingly bitter. “I came to make sure things went smoothly— according to plan.”

“Well that's just it ain't it, Charlie fucks everything up, he can't do nothing on his own.”

His eyes were fixed on Meyer, who himself was very interested in what was outside. There was silence. Charlie fidgeted.

Meyer turned from the window, but looked at the wall, "You sound like Benny."

"Fuck you." He threw the sheets aside and yanked his pants from the floor. He put them on in a violent movement.

"What are you doing?"

"I'd like to have pants on for an argument, thanks."

"Is that what we're doing?" He sounded almost bored.

"That's what you saying ain't it? If only I had listened to Meyer, if only I had followed directions, if only I had danced right on your little fucking puppet strings we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"You certainly wouldn't be living fucking four thousand miles away in _SICILY_."

"You was the one that put me there!"

"I got you out of _prison_ , Charlie. By the way, you're fucking welcome."

"And all of this could've been avoided if Meyer’s pet dago had jumped when he said 'jump!'"

“Yes.” Like venom he spit it at him, and Charlie felt the bitter heat of retaliation settle in his stomach.

“Well I'm sure as fuck glad I didn't listen to you about marriage.”

Meyer's anger dropped, his back pressed against the window as he looked at him. “Charlie,” it was less of a warning; there was something desperate in it. “Don't.”

“Make sure you bring your kids somethin' back so they'll know you're still alive.” He regretted it as he said it.

“ _Fuck you_.”

Meyer crossed the room and was out the door faster than Charlie could speak. He followed, chasing after him past the silk curtains and bleached wood furniture. Relief mixed in his stomach at the fact that there were no guards, Meyer had sent them away.

Fuck him for always thinking of shit.

Meyer burst into the foyer and Charlie close after him, grabbing him just at the shoulder to stop him before he reach the door.

And then Charlie was on the floor. And his face hot and throbbing and a little numb. Blood from his nose dripped into his mouth. He looked up at Meyer, whose chest was heaving and fists were curled. He was shocked a bit, not surprised just startled. And damn he still punched like Jack Dempsey.

"I'm sorry, Mey, I'm fucking sorry. Just— please, please don't leave me."

Meyers let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The fury began to wash out of him, and he cursed himself for it. He dropped his shoulders, he relaxed his hands, he looked anywhere but Charlie's miserable face, and nodded slowly. He sat down next to him. Charlie was stiff but slowly began to relax; he let his shoulders bump Meyer's, his eyes were trained on the door. He brought his head forward to rest on his knees.

"The fuck I know about marriage? Only person I been married to is you."

Meyer looked at him. 

He had never thought about it like that.

Knowing glances and calming phone calls; renting a home and cooking dinners; small gestures and goodnight touches; first to come and last to leave; Benny and AR and prison registers and long plane rides.

Charlie turned his face to him, still leaning on his folded knees. “I’m sorry.” It was a whisper. 

There was something so far in his eyes, so open. Meyer remembered Dannemora, the prison.

“This is all I got.” 

Meyer took his hand, intertwined it with his own. He pulled the older man into him, nose coming to neck, arms coming to shoulders, legs tangling together. 

It was there. All of it. Sicily and New York and Benny and the FBI and all the shit that was about to break over them.

But Charlie was here. And he was here with him. It had to be enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lercara Friddi, Sicily, 1958**

It was beautiful here in the autumn, the air was light and the mountains were orange. It was a breath of old memories; following the sheep on the hill side, his mother squeezing the lemon water from the laundry, deep afternoons in the grove. It was a good country, old traditions and hostile rivalries aside, and he should’ve been grateful to return. But of course, it hadn’t been a choice, and so there festered the bitterness. Old memories became bad memories: the rotting smell of sulfur, the dry heat of his father’s backhand. 

For those men in Washington to ship him here, “ _deport_ ” him—he was an American, dammit. More of an American than most of them, more vicious in pursuit of the American Dream, and an outstanding example of it, too.  
He finished his wine in one swallow, regretting the loss of taste almost immediately. It was evening now in the villa, and it was in the evening it was the most impossible to forget, to ignore, the foreignness he felt in his own country. 

_I’m an American._

No.

_I’m a New Yorker._

There was something to that, something different, a heavy weight on the tongue. He never understood how Benny could dream of the West Coast, eyes wide at any mention of Hollywood and those warm waves; a child’s dream. Maybe he should’ve longed for California, they say it looks more like Italy than Rome. But New York was home, after all. 

His throat tightened, his head felt heavy. _The wine, must’ve been…_ He walked to his room, hand trailing against the door frame, then the desk, then the window. He turned his eyes away from the night and sat down. He was taking too long, he knew, biding his time.

He leaned back in his chair, gaze locked on the chaise in the middle of the room. The doors to the balcony were open behind it, letting in a fresh breeze that made the flames of the candles shiver. He picked up the phone where he had left it. _Give me a second_. 

He paused, then spoke. “I can see you here, ya know… in a loose shirt, all those top buttons undone. It gets kinda chilled at night though, but you’d be warm with wine… I’d make sure… That’s how you’d taste too, like wine—“

“Charlie.” It was soft, a warning. It was too little too late to agonize now; Meyer had realized that in Cuba. He clenched his jaw. The silence on the line was uncharacteristic and it began to weigh on him. 

“Charlie?”

There was a sound, something incoherent. Seven thousand miles away Charlie hid his face in his hand, voice breaking with emotion.

“ _I miss you_.”

He pushed the phone away from his face, suddenly overcome with such an extreme loneliness he had never felt in his whole life. His face slide from the palm of his hand to the crook of his arm and he felt the hot tears seep into his shirt. What the hell was this? What the fuck was wrong with him anyway? He heard Meyer calling him through the receiver.

“Charlie? _Charlie?_ Where are you right now? Charlie please what’s going— “

He swallowed his sob. “I’m here, sorry— “

“I love you.”

“ _Fuck_.” The tears spilled out again. 

“Charlie…”

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “Oh, what the fuck!”

“Listen to me, listen to my voice, Charlie. Breathe, it’s gonna be fine. I’m here, I’m right there.”

“But you’re _not_.” His eyes burned. “I realized in Cuba that was the last time I was ever gonna see you. I ain’t ever gonna see your ugly mug again, that was it.”

“Come on— “

“No, your beautiful face. Look I can’t even be mean to you, you got those dark eyes and those pretty lashes. They’re like a broad’s they’re so long.”

“Charlie.”

“I feel like I’m missin’ half of myself over here, Mey, you fuckin’ cut off a piece of me and kept it, you brat— “

“ _Charlie_.” It was firm this time.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, small and far away. There was silence on the line.

Meyer didn’t know what to say. He wanted it to be okay, he wanted to be there with him; to pull him in his arms, to card fingers through his hair. 

“Do you still not use pomade?” He said instead.

A pause.

“What?”

“In your hair?”

“…No.” Charlie answered. “Ain’t got nobody to see.”

“I like your hair like that.” Meyer said, quiet this time. “Soft.”

“Meyer?”

“Yes?”

“I—“ He broke off. He breathed. “I’m glad you called.”

Meyer smiled sadly in New York.

Charlie shrugged, “S’all.”

Meyer nodded. There was something to it. An understanding; always an understanding.

“Alright.”


	9. Chapter 9

**New York, 1962**

He was in his living room when he got the call.

He was looking over the newspaper when he heard the phone ring.

He was smoking a cigarette when he crossed the room for it.

He was crushing the ash when he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Lansky?” 

“Yes.” He said, clipped. The phone line was fuzzy, like it was far away.

“I was instructed to call you. It’s about Mr. Luciano.”

His head felt suddenly very heavy.

“Mr. Lansky?”

“Yes.”

“I’m really very sorry—but, well, this morning he had a heart attack at the Naples Airport.” 

Meyer didn’t answer. 

“I’m sure this is very hard to hear, I’m truly very sorry. I was told to call you right away—“

“Where is he?” Meyer finally managed.

"What?”

“Where’s Charlie? What hospital did they bring him to?” Call hospital. Get a flight. Emergency. Who is with him? Where? Call hospital.

“Oh, well, Mr. Lansky I’m very sorry, but, he isn’t at a hospital. There’s nothing that could have been done, see, I’m sorry, but—“

_What?_

“He’s dead.”

_Oh._

“Oh.”

The man on the other line continued. Meyer let the phone down from his ear. Slowly to the floor. He looked around at his living room. It looked different. Did someone move the furniture? It looked different.

Images.

Charlie on the beach, blood on his hands. His scared lips on a tenement floor. Eyes alive, a deal with AR. His hands prone to frantic touches in a hotel room. The drop of his brow in the hospital. His hand plastered to glass, begging. Sleepy curls and warm kisses and hot tears. The strain of his voice on a phone call. 

This.

He reached out into the world.

A sinking feeling of being alone.

 

_“We were like gods at the dawning of the world, & our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.”_  
–Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles


End file.
